


The Weaker Vessel

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [41]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The retirement of Reverend Miles brings a greedy and ambitious new minister to the village.  He takes a good look at Haven, at the Mistress of Haven, and determines they should be his for the taking.  He decides to use his 'strong manly presence' to bring the 'weaker vessel' at Haven more into line with 'God's will', including sending one Peter Newkirk on his sorry way.  As Reverend Miles ruminates to his four-legged friend Ruth, "I don't see that going well!"   It will take a concerted effort from the old Reverend and from the ladies of Haven, as well as visit or two from the illustrious (or is that infamous)  Lady Margaret, to get things back to normal.





	The Weaker Vessel

Peter slammed in through the kitchen door, cursing, dumping the parcels on the table with a clatter.

"What on earth?" Caeide exclaimed coming through the door from the main room in front. This was the man who could come up behind her on the stairs and her never hear him; he did NOT clatter or throw things, at least not anymore, and he'd stopped slamming doors once that initial rage died out.

"That bloody preacher, 'e needs to mind 'is own bloody business, that's what! Up in my face, 'e was, all the time I'm trying to pick up the shipment, making a right scene in front of Davie Rhys and 'is wife. I'm thinking we'll 'ave to make amends with the two of them, Caeide, Magda was right embarrassed at the things that twister was saying! Saying things you don't say in front of a woman, if you get my meaning, about me and you, about me and Andrew! Makes my blood boil, 'e does, so 'igh and mighty with 'is passing judgement, saying what should be, what shouldn't be! Says he's gonna be talking wi' you, and your Clan, as well as with the 'authorities', whoever that might be; that there'll be changes coming and for me not to get too settled in; 'e'll see me gone soon enough, and likely Andrew as well!".

He wasn't too worried about that; he'd finally come to terms about how Caeide and the Clan regarded him, though he'd fought it for so very long. He just didn't want any trouble visiting her on his behalf, and he didn't want Andrew being troubled. And, whether he admitted it or not, that mention of the 'authorities' was a bit worrysome, considering he and the military hadn't parted on good terms, in fact they hadn't actually parted on any terms at all, which could be an issue when they met, if that bit of fast finger work from the Clan on his file didn't hold. Though, with him having that Honorable Discharge in the file upstairs, and his backpay collected, it seemed it was holding just fine; still, the notion was always there, strong enough he was still putting off that trip to London to see Mavis. 

He knew there were those who had disapproved of his being here, even more so now that Andrew had come to live here as well. Mostly he kept his head and held his tongue and just ignored the occasional looks he received; there were rarely words, since most of the locals had no wish to offend the mistress at Haven, and she'd made no secret of just where she stood on the subject. Haven had been here for as long as local history could remember; Haven contributed heavily to the local economy; in good times and bad, Haven was a good neighbor, as long as you didn't think to rule over those who lived there. However, the locals were also aware, Haven had its own customs, its own ways, and it didn't do to go interferring. Those who tried, soon regretted it, and the lady wasn't in the least shy about letting them know when they displeased her. 

There'd been those who were disappointed, to say the least, when Peter arrived and his place in the scheme of things became known. There were one or two who thought their sons might have a chance of becoming the new master at Haven, seeing as how the lady there had not chosen anyone, had lived alone there for so long, never mind the likelihood of that happening if it hadn't before in all the history of Haven. One of the more disgruntled had made a few choice comments about 'London trash coming in, taking over' making reference to Maudie and Marisol and now Peter, and about 'sly city ways, taking advantage of her who wouldn't know any better' and about 'not a sixpence to his name, I'd wager, and I've heard he's been in real trouble, well, and who's to say that uniform was even real.' Caeide had responded in her own unmistakeable way. Those who had talked thusly, she snubbed, bluntly, without hesitation; that first time, she'd gotten right up from an afternoon council meeting and left, not a word, but with a look that told those there exactly why; well, seeing as how the major detractor had just come through the door, arriving late, wasn't so hard to guess. He'd turned purple, and sputtered, but the others put him straight right enough, what with the position Haven and its lady held, and he'd backed down and stopped making trouble, the others knowing, or soon discovering, which side their bread was buttered on.

Purchases that would have been made from the local artisans, directly or at market just didn't get made, at least not from those who gossiped and talked spite. Hiring for field work was made among those who hadn't gotten her back up. Afternoon visitors had been turned away, door shut in their astonished faces with a cold "I think not," invitations received were refused, invitations to Haven simply not given. And it wasn't as if anyone could say it was the outsiders doing any of this, influencing her, that was right clear from the first! She was the one who accepted or refused visitors; she was the one who issued or did not issue invitations.

She had put up a board in the station, alone, her very own self, to the amusement of Davie Rhys and his wife; on it were listed the offenders; the sign bore the mark of Haven - there was no explanation, but it didn't take long for the locals to notice whose names were on the board and who was out of charity with Haven and that they were one and the same. Seemed to be a lot more effort was put forth after that to avoid being listed on that Board, and at finding ways to get their names off if they did land there.

There had been other things on her To Do list, to the vast amusement of Marisol and Maude, but it turned out not to be necessary to implement them. The locals saw which way the wind blew, and came around right fast; luckily those at Haven weren't the kind to hold a grudge, well, not so much, and things dropped back to peaceful again. Well, the locals had little to do with the inner workings at Haven, and it wasn't often Peter went out and about, at least during that first year anyway. No one braced him, even if few embraced him, and he told himself he was content with that, and she let things rest there, with Reverend Miles urging her to patience, though she was less than content.

There was more talk when Andrew arrived, but he was such a sweet one, always with a kind word and eager smile, that the talk died down quickly. Somehow, he didn't seem as dangerous as Peter had seemed. There was many a time when Caeide and Peter laughed about that, saying to each other, "oh, if only they knew!"

Two months ago, however, a new preacher had arrived at the small stone church, taking the place of Reverend Miles, who had gotten more infirm, and felt unable to continue ministering to this widely scattered flock. The old Reverend had retired to a small cottage, in the hills overlooking the sea, on land given him by Haven for his lifetime in respect for his long and kindly service. He was content with his tiny garden and a young hound, one from Estelle's latest litter, given him by Caeide; he had a small gig and a pony to visit about. Packages from Haven arrived regularly, with those there checking often to be sure he was in need of nothing. Firewood appeared, stacked at his rear door; water keg was replaced before it was near empty; he wanted for nothing, and if he had, knew he had only to say so. Reverend Miles had worked with Haven throughout his long service here, from the time he was a young man, many long years before the current mistress had taken over. He'd seen many hands in charge, had mourned the loss of those who had departed, celebrated the coming of the new caretakers. Haven had never been left unattended, never abandoned, no matter what ills befell the land around it. Haven provided when food was short; Haven provided when illness struck; Haven was a partner to the church, or at least to the Reverend, and a goodly portion of the charity funds came from Haven. He knew better than to expect those of Haven to worship at the church; through the years they had visited, certainly, but as a courtesy, but, again, they had their own ways. Maude and Marisol came more often, but they still were more Haven, not of the valley, and that was considered right and proper in his eyes. He was a canny man, and respectful of others, and although he'd made sure they knew he and his God were always available to them, he'd not pressed the matter.

It had worked well, their relationship. He had noted the arrival of the Englishman, with some concern, but he also knew that Caeide O'Donnell was no naive fool, but rather a right canny one, well, as were they all in her family, and had wondered, rightly, if this might not be the Peter he'd heard about from her for so many years, and later from Maude and Marisol. He'd heard from Davie Rhys about the night the man had arrived, that he'd been welcomed as fairly and warmly as the prodigal son in Scripture, with glad outcries and welcoming arms.

He saw for himself how this stranger was regarded. He'd done his duty and gone and welcomed the man. His concern turned away from the prospect of Caeide being taken advantage of to a true concern for the wellbeing of the obviously ill and exhausted man, obviously well known and just as obviously well loved by all three of the women at Haven. They became friends of a sort; the Reverend would visit on a rainy afternoon at times, they would sit and talk, sometimes play at chess, sometimes listen to music; if it was a very good day, the man might join Caeide in a song or two, and he had a strong rich voice the Reverend would listen to with great pleasure. The Englishman added something to the Reverend's life he'd never thought to experience, and he was grateful for that gift, though wistful that it had happened so late in his life.

The young Andrew, too, it was obvious he was a welcome addition to their admittedly unusual family grouping. An American, a bit younger, perhaps a bit naive and more than a bit clumsy, but he and Peter were old friends, and Caeide had known him as well, and he was truly one of their own from the time he first visited. The Clan had never adopted the local ways; they had their own; well, they had a right to their own, to his mind, so the Reverend sent prayers their way, and encouraged others to leave Haven to its own, as had always been. 

Now a stranger, this new preacher, had arrived, and though Reverend Miles had tried to explain how things worked, though being properly discreet as he knew Haven would want, this new man was having none of it. HE knew his duty, HE knew right from wrong, HE was greatly surprised that Reverend Miles had tolerated such insolence, such arrogance, such immorality, such depravity as he was sure was happening up at Haven. HE intended to put a stop to it! A principal landowner, a frail woman at that, in need of strong moral male guidance, at the mercy of some criminal upstart from the city and his cohorts; it was not to be tolerated.

The new preacher had a bit of a good opinion of himself, of his fine looks and manners, his appeal to the ladies of his flock, and he thought he would fit in very well up at Haven, a right rich holding as it were, and the lady not ill-favored in looks, though certainly no beauty, not with that Devil's coloring in her hair, but not unhandsome in her way, and she could be taught to cover that offence to God's eyes with a lace or linen cap, he was sure; well, he'd just take things in hand there, much more fitting. He preened a bit, thinking of it.

Reverend Miles shook his head and thought to himself and remarked to Ruth, "there's little good that'll come of that!". He found his mind going, reluctantly, to that spot on the far hillside of Haven, where no one ventured; it was said there were more than a few 'shallow graves' in that area, courtesy of Haven having been pushed too far, down through the many, many years of its existance. Reverend Miles knew the truth about that hillside, and he dreaded what the new preacher might just have put into motion.

The preacher, Reverend Dawkins, started by paying a visit to Haven, to speak to the lady herself. Surely with a little godly counsel she'd see the light and send this unseemly visitor, this Peter Newkirk, on his way. Dawkins wasn't in too much of a hurry about the American, Andrew Carter, who seemed harmless in the ways that counted, and the two women; he'd decide what needed to be done about them later, not that he would tolerate any hangers-on to his charity, of course, but no sense taking on too much at one time, not til he had the reins firmly in his hands; but the tall dark haired Cockney, one look at him and Dawkins knew, HE had to go, and go now! He was an obvious threat to the new Reverend's plans, easily able to sway a weak woman, lead her down paths best not taken, into rebellion against God's will! Time enough to get rid of the others after, once Haven was firmly his. The visit could not have been termed a success by the good Reverend. The lady had admitted him in all courtesy, sat down with him over tea in the big front room, but once he started telling her what she needed to do, outlining the evils of her situation, she refused to hear him out, and told him to leave. Told him that his opinions were not needed or wanted. That Peter Newkirk was a part of their family and there was no intention of that changing.

He had laid his hand on her arm to remonstrate with her, and was told softly, to 'remove your hand from my arm', and when he hadn't, when he had tightened his grip, moved to lean into her, trying to use his strong manly physical presence to call her to God's will, was told even more softly, "step back, remove your hand from my arm, or I will remove your hand from your arm, it's your choice,".

He started to scold her for being overly dramatic and underly humble as ill befits the weaker vessel, when he felt the cold metal of a sharp blade against his wrist, and saw the thin red line that formed when she pressed downward. He jerked his bleeding hand away, his eyes flaring with shock, and she smiled at him, with an cold, even unholy look in her gaze, "you can leave now. You needn't return. You are NOT welcome at Haven." He started to protest, and at a call from her, suddenly the two men were there, lifting him off his feet, depositing him on the stone step outside the door, the door latched firmly behind him.

{"Well, we'll just see about this"}, he fumed to himself as he marched back to his gig and pony and with a quick flick of his whip, drove back to the church.

His next move was against Andrew Carter. He'd caught sight of the young American at the small village market where the young man was unloading goods for the Vincent stand Haven helped to stock; they took no share of the proceeds, which went to fund the local orphanage and elderhouse, and the preacher disliked and distrusted that as well. Charity, in his opinion, needed to funnel through the church, where he'd get the proper credit for the totals with his superiors, him deciding when and how it'd be spent, not handled in this slipshod manner! Also, though he'd not mention it, where he could first take his share of what was being offered, whether goods or coin.

He approached the young man, and proceeded to explain the evils of his situation, at full pulpit voice, his concern over the depravity he was being forced to endure, his understanding of the vile and corrupt practices he was probably being subjected to. Andrew's eyes were huge, and he looked around in dismay to see he and the Reverend had the attention of everyone at the market, all standing staring with appalled looks on their faces, albeit some were just puzzled at what the Reverend was trying to say.

Well, Andrew knew what he was saying, and didn't think anything that happened at Haven was any of the Reverend's business, but when the man started to revile Peter for his corrupting evil city ways, and Caeide for being a weak, easily led astray woman, he lost his temper. Now, most times Andrew didn't have much of a temper; he was of so even a disposition as to seem uncanny sometimes, but this was just more than he could stand.

"You, you just shut up! You don't know anything about anything, and what's more, you can't say those things about my friends!" No, it wasn't the most eloquent speech ever, but he was just too mad to try for eloquent. He actually considered taking a swing at the Reverend, but couldn't bring himself to go that far, not against a preacher, so he just stormed away, got back in the cart and left.

He was still angry and upset when he got home and told the assorted family about what had happened. Peter got very quiet, finished his cigarette, and turned to walk out.

"Peter, what did you have in mind to do, love?" Caeide asked him quietly.

"Thinking I need to go 'ave a long talk with that wanker; 'im rounding on me is one thing, but 'im taking on Andrew, that's another!"

"Seems we have something more important to do right now," she said, motioning to Andrew who was frowning and whose ever ready smile was now present only upside down. 

Peter took a good look at his friend, his luv, and realized she was right.

"Alright, Andrew, Caeide, let's go talk this through somewhere, the office maybe." The three of them headed upstairs and got settled in the big chairs.

"Andrew, what upset you most about what happened today?" Caeide asked him gently. "I understand he said some bad things about Peter and me and you, and about things he said were happening here. What upset you most?"

Caeide was a strong believer in trying to figure out what was really broken before she tried to fix it, rather than wading in with solutions only to find out while the solution was sound, it wasn't relevant to what the real problem had been. She'd always considered that a woeful waste of time and energy.

Andrew frowned again, not saying anything, trying to figure that out, and Caeide wondered how to better get to what she wanted to find out.

Peter, seeing what she was attempting, broke in to the silence, "Andrew, are you upset about 'im taking you to task in public? About 'im trying to give orders? Or were you 'aving second thoughts about anything we do together, share together 'ere? If any of that is something you don't want to 'appen, you know, all you 'ave to do is say so. Nothing is going to 'appen that you don't want to, you 'ave to know that." Then he felt right silly, considering it was Andrew who'd started that ball into play, most enthusiastically, not Peter or Caeide, started it and kept it rolling right merrily along. But if it wasn't that, then what WAS Andrew so upset about, other than the Reverend lighting into him in public, that is?

Andrew sat for a minute, then burst out, "that's just it. It's none of his business; it's nobody's business. Caeide already explained that; Haven is Clan, Clan doesn't live by someone else's rules, it lives by its own. You both said that, when I came here, that I was family now! Well, nothing that's happening here is against Clan rules, or Caeide would've said, right up front, so that's all there is to it! But for him to try to make you and Caeide and Maudie and Marisol and me look bad in front of the others, to make them try to get mad at us, that's just not right. Sides, he made it all sound dirty, and maybe if it was between strangers, people who didn't love each other, maybe, I don't know anything about that, but it's not, it's us. It's not his right to say!" he came close to shouting.

Peter and Caeide looked at each other and together came to put their arms around him, holding him close, hugging him tightly.

"Exactly right, Andrew," said Caeide.

"Couldn't 'ave said it better meself, Andrew luv," Peter added.

Dinner was followed by a congenial game of cards, and everyone settled into their own beds for an uneasy night's sleep. Within two hours of lights out, Andrew came tapping on Peter's door, "Peter, can I come in, I can't sleep."

A dreary-eyed Peter opened the door and drew his friend inside; he himself had been in and out of bed half a dozen times, unable to settle, unable to think of a solution. "'alf a mo, Andrew," he said, as he went through the office door to tap on Caeide's door. "Caeide, luv, we could use some company, if you'd not mind," he whispered softly, and he was answered by an immediate opening of the door.

"Come through, the pair of you, I was missing you both, you know," she said as they both joined her in her bed. They settled in close, each finally relaxing in the warm company, and drifted off to sleep. Before she fell asleep, though, Caeide thought to herself, {"this ends and ends quickly. I'll not have that fool causing any more pain up here than he's already done, and he'll certainly try."}

 

Early the next morning, well before dawn, asking Peter to tend the big stock in her place, Caeide saddled the tall chestnut mare she used for riding the hills and set out to visit Reverend Miles, complete with saddle bags full of treats from Haven, and a full duffle strapped across her horse's flanks behind her stuffed with a new warm quilt and warm woolen sheets the women had just finished for him.

She had always liked the old man, from the first time she started coming to Haven as a child, and her liking had only grown through the years. She was more than a little grateful at his befriending Peter; that had been an important step forward for the man; he was unaccustomed to being in the sole company of women after all those years in camp, and it had been good for him to have a congenial male companion again. She'd seen what the befriending had meant for the Reverend as well, and was glad there was caring on both sides, though of a different sort for each of them. The Reverend's acceptance had led to Davie Rhys following suit, and also Elis Tanner, so Peter was no longer quite so alone, even if you discounted Andrew, which you could hardly do. She topped a rise and saw the small cottage in front of her, smoke rising from the chimney, "Good, I'll get morning tea, most like,"; she'd left so early, she'd missed out on that at home. She'd just stopped in the kitchen to pull what she wanted from the large pantry, wrap and bundle the quilt and bedding, and leave a hurried note on the table for the family, telling them where she was headed and that she'd be back probably by the noontime meal.

She was welcomed warmly by the gentle man, sat with him at a small table in his garden, sipping freshly made tea, and talked of the new preacher in the valley below. He was distressed; he had hoped his conversation with Dawkins would have led the man in a more benign direction, but obviously not. Just as obviously, the situation was not going to be tolerated by Haven. He didn't know when he had seen the young woman so tight with anger, all of her protectiveness in full flow. He remembered her encounter with that wild boar and the three feral sows and which side had ended up piled under that tarp waiting to be added to the village stewpots. He rather thought the new preacher would fare no better.

"I came to see what you know of the man, to see if you have any suggestions, before I take action. He is making my family unhappy, he is disrupting the relationship between Haven and the valley, and that will not be allowed to continue, frankly," she said as she sipped her tea, accompanied by some of the small sweet cookies she had brought. At his raised brows and questioning look, she answered him with a wry grin, "I'm not asking you to fix the problem, Reverend, just asking if you can share some of your wisdom, before I decide what to do." 

"I don't suppose there's any question of Peter leaving, and you taking this new man in his place?" he asked solemnly, at which her head snapped back and her eyes looked fire, at the sight of which he chuckled at his successful teasing of her, her not being an easy one to catch off guard like that.

Realizing what he'd done, she grinned in return, "being a minister, I'm sure ye've heard of the phrase 'hell freezing over?" she inquired.

He chuckled in full understanding, "just so; well, I'd thought not, nor would I recommend it in any case. Well, I don't think appealing to the church authorities would work so well; there are enough who would agree with him in his stance, and I doubt drawing attention to the Clan presence here, or Peter's, perhaps even young Andrew's would be beneficial."

He sat, looking thoughtful, taking time to light his pipe, sitting back, saying nothing. She sat quietly as well, enjoying the silence of the garden, patting Ruth, her with that lovely steel-gray coat.

Finally, he spoke, a gleam of mischief in his faded eyes that reminded her of her men, especially Andrew when he was deep in an enthusiasm. She wondered, with raised brows, whether she should be as wary as she'd grown to be when she saw that look at home.

"This is an interesting part of the world to live in, at least I've always found it to be so. The legends, the old stories, why they would fill a book, maybe several, if anyone ever collected them and wrote them down," he puffed gently away at his pipe. She listened; the old man was most knowledgeable about such things, and she doubted this was a change of conversation, more a lead in to a possible solution. He recounted story after story, many of which involved the comeupance of mortals interferring in the ways of the more uncanny creatures of the area; others concerned mortals gone to the bad, coming back to trouble the unwary; still more about those too jumped up in their own importance being brought down by forces unknown and sometimes unseen, often better left unseen. 

He then switched the conversation around to his garden and hers, talked about the herbs and their various uses, the strange effects of certain herbs, of how some could cause one to become slightly anxious for no reason, how others could cause night sweats, some even causing hallucinations, dimming vision, untoward erotic excitement (he blushed a bit at the latter comment).

He felt vaguely guilty in doing all this, but he had some concern that whatever Caeide might come up with could prove more final than he'd be comfortable with, so he decided to try and urge her in the direction of, if not a more kindly resolution, at least one not ending in a shallow grave on the hillside! Haven's history had included more than one of those, as he knew full well, and the Mistress of Haven, in the protection of her own, was more than capable of adding to that number. She smiled at him over her cup, knowing quite well what he was thinking, {"well, isn't this why I came visiting him, after all?"}

They had a pleasant visit, him ending with telling her of his intention to visit a few of the locals later, perhaps the Rhys family, the Oglens, maybe a couple of the others. She chuckled, all of the ones he mentioned had a deep history in the area, and while these families looked most kindly on Haven, all had a tendency to like the old stories; they also liked to visit and gossip, so whatever was discussed would be making the rounds right soon.

She left in great charity with him, taking with her a mental list of stories, and another list of herbs she needed to gather from the gardens or from her stores, and a supply of a few from his garden that she had never before seen any reason to grow, though now thinking a slight addition to the garden space might be advisable.

Seemingly the support bundle for the kirk might enjoy an enhancement or two as well; she felt it was time Haven gave a bit more attention to making their offerings truly suitable. She knew that, unlike the gentle man she'd just left who saw that the support bundle was parceled out among the locals according to need, keeping only the basket given specifically to him for his use and sometimes even sharing out from that to those he thought more in need, the current occupant kept the more choice items from the support bundle for his own kitchen, as his rightful due, along with the basket meant for him. Once they had become aware of that, Haven had chosen to compensate by preparing separate baskets to be delivered individually, personally by Haven, to the various homesteads and cottages, and they had been reducing the support bundles gradually, to the new Reverend's displeasure. She'd received a rather stern note regarding that just last week. Well, perhaps it was time to rectify that, more in the manner he'd so firmly suggested. She knew he was particularly fond of the finer herb teas, a good bottle of homemade wine, and had a sweet tooth. She knew just what additions would be sifted into the batch of pastries she'd be baking that afternoon, well, two separate batches since each of her own lads had their own sweet tooth she liked to satisfy. Their batch first, to keep their eager fingers off her second batch, then, and making sure to stay in the kitchen during the cooling and packing of the second batch, to be sure there was no sneaking of samples; she didn't want to deal with the complications THAT could lead to! And the teas to get blended and packaged into their cloth bags, and perhaps a fine bottle of their homemade wine, suitable enhanced with a fine infusion needle through the cork, all into a plentiful 'parson's basket' to be left at the kirk door, as was custom. She knew nothing from that basket would go to anyone else; no, the proud and more than a little greedy Reverend Dawkins would be the only one to get pleasure from that offering.

Peter would have been more than a little wary of the smile that crossed her face; after all, he'd have seen the like on more than one occasion.

 

Reverend Dawkins was a deeply troubled man. The small kirk and adjoining cottage which had seemed so tidy and snug, so welcoming, upon his arrival, if more than a trifle below his proper due, had become uncomfortable for him. Strange shadows lurked in the corners, moving unexpectedly when there was nothing to make them move. Spider webs appeared in great masses, with no spiders in sight, though perhaps the addition of spiders might not have brought any more ease of mind. The cozy fire had started smoking, and no cleaning of the chimney could make it stop; he'd had to start fixing his evening meal early and eating it cold, rather than have a fire later and have the smoke lingering in the small sleeping area at night. He was starting to dread the onset of winter, thinking of the long days of a smoky interior, long nights without a banked fire. 

Worst were the nights, when he would wake in a sweat, looking around for the threat overhanging him, to see nothing there, but knowing something had been poised over him but moments ago. He started thinking uneasily of the stories he'd overheard the locals recounting, silly superstitions he'd told them right sharply, and they should be ashamed of themselves for repeating them! Now, in the darkest of nights, he remembered the stories, the y Gwyllgi, the coblynau, the canwyll corph, even the very odd and licentious tale of Lady Margaret. In the light of day, he dismissed them as foolishness, but in the morning, while having his tea and sweet biscuits from one of the richer of the tithing baskets, Haven again remembering its responsibility to the church enough to continue those after he'd sent that reprimanding note, he thought uneasily about his disturbed sleep.

When he met the huge red animal with the strange eyes and rough fur along the back path to the station, he reported it to the local huntsman as a wolf, only to have that sage head shaken with doubt, to be told 'than't be no wolves in this parts, sir, ain't been since my granther's days, and no big dog like ta wat ye've described neither.' And with a laugh, the huntsman told him, 'Mayhap ye've caught a glimpse of the y Gwyllgi, though I've always heard it to be black, not red!'

When he saw the small men flitting around the edge of the cottage, no more than a foot and a half high they were, ugly as sin itself, dressed in ragged clothes and carrying tiny miners lamps, he knew he was seeing things; he put it down to lack of sleep, but his mind went back to the stories of the coblynau, and he swallowed convulsively and hurried inside to say his prayers at the covered alter. The red bursts of light he caught sight of from his windows, like tall rush torches with red flames, made his breath catch in his throat, and he hurriedly latched the shutters so he'd not see them any more.

In fact, any more, the cottage and the kirk were shut up tight, against light, against air, except when services were being held. The locals remarked on that; used to be the kirk was open for any who had the need to come and seek solace, and the old reverend had never hid himself away. This new one, he'd not come out after dusk or before dawn to comfort the sick, the grieving or the troubled; they had to put their worries and woes on hold til the full morning when he'd again show himself. Wouldn't journey into the farther homesteads, either, seeming to fear the heights and the trails well out of reason. The new preacher's popularity, never very high, dropped considerably.

The day came when Davie Rhys reported that the Reverend Dawkins had been found, huddled against the front wall of his station, whimpering, with his bag in his hands. He insisted that Rhys flag down the next train, that he had to leave, he couldn't go back, he couldn't face her, not again. Seemingly it was best, thought Rhys, having no high opinion at all of this man, neither as a man nor as a preacher, and he did so, helping the trainman load the quivering preacher into the rail car, headed back to Cardith, then on to London.

Relating the story, Rhys told the listeners, "said he'd not spend another night in her company, he did. Said she just stood and stared at him, long blond hair falling down to her knees, ripped gown flowing around her, and lately had come to sitting across from him, smiling, blood dripping from the corners of her mouth, sharp teeth glowing in the darkness."

"What's this nonsense? WHO?"

"Lady Margaret, he said, said she visited him every night, whispering to him, telling him ungodly things, tempting him to ungodly acts," his eyes wide.

Reverend Miles, listening on the outskirts of the crowd, "madness, of course. Strange for it to take such a form, in a man of the church, especially a man so upright and moral, of course, but there it is; you never really know, do you?" shaking his head mournfully, waiting for that first pang of guilt to hit him, but to his surprise, it never did.

At Haven, things were peaceful again, relations with the locals back to the usual. A new preacher had arrived, a gentle man much like Reverend Miles. Indeed the good Reverend had had a hand in selecting him to serve here, a great-nephew of an old friend from the seminary in fact, and one who'd taken the words of that kind man much to heart. He had spent a long afternoon in that tiny cottage in the hills; spent time walking the fields in thought and in prayer. He'd come to visit at Haven, sat and had tea and talked with those who dwelt there, and had left in good understanding with the residents there. Haven and the kirk were in harmony once again. 

Peter and Andrew came into the kitchen from the big front room more quietly than usual, in search of tea, both having drowsed in their easy chairs after luncheon, following a particularly heavy morning's work. There, in the doorway, they watched as the three women were carefully packing things away in a small trunk, quietly talking amonst themselves.

"Well, 'ere's the wig, I've wound it nicely so it won't tangle; 'ere's the teeth. That long robe with all the tears, that's in there too. What about those candles? Will they last, or do we just make more if needs be, along with the red paste? The 'erbs go to the compost bin, they'll go bad for sure."

"Hopefully we'll not need any of it again, but all except the costume itself can be done fresh. Sleep well, Lady Margaret, sleep in peace for now," Caeide said with a smile, closing the trunk, patting the lid and securing it with a lock. They turned at the audible gasp and loud swallowing from the back of the room.

Andrew just stood with his eyes open wide, Peter's were narrowed in thought, remembering the nights when he'd thought she'd been unable to sleep, heard her slipping down the stairs, leaving her to it, knowing from her letters that she liked to wander the night sometimes. Then he nodded, one side of his mouth turning up, then a slight chuckle escaping him.

"Some day, Brat, you'll need to tell me all about it."

Andrew looked at them all and shook his head, "No, Peter, ghost stories are better told at night, you know," with a widening grin.


End file.
